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<title>The Lightbulb Moment (and the Subsequent Struggle to Put the Damn Thing Out) by moesqueleto</title>
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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22704442">The Lightbulb Moment (and the Subsequent Struggle to Put the Damn Thing Out)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/moesqueleto/pseuds/moesqueleto'>moesqueleto</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Asexual Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-02-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 03:28:39</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>867</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22704442</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/moesqueleto/pseuds/moesqueleto</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It hurt. It had hurt for so long that the intangible black hole festering away in his stomach felt like it was just part of him, and always had been. He had no idea when it started or even why it started, but it came rather suddenly to his attention after he realized he’d been sitting completely still in his flat, staring blankly at the fireplace for days after the fire itself had died out. He lurched forward as the thought didn’t occur to him so much as it did violently body check him right off his ass, causing him to tumble out of his armchair with the grace of a newborn giraffe.</p><p>Spears of cold panic dug into his core. “Oh,” he muttered to himself. “Oh, shit.”</p><p>---</p><p>That terrifying moment when you realize that you may have certain emotions for a certain Adversary of yours.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Lightbulb Moment (and the Subsequent Struggle to Put the Damn Thing Out)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Has this been done before? Yes. </p><p>Did I have to write my own version of it anyway? Yes.</p><p>It's been sitting around on my computer for a while now, figured I might as well post it here.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It hurt. It had hurt for so long that the intangible black hole festering away in his stomach felt like it was just part of him, and always had been. He had no idea when it started or even why it started, but it came rather suddenly to his attention after he realized he’d been sitting completely still in his flat, staring blankly at the fireplace for days after the fire itself had died out. He lurched forward as the thought didn’t occur to him so much as it did violently body check him right off his ass, causing him to tumble out of his armchair with the grace of a newborn giraffe.

</p><p>Spears of cold panic dug into his core. “Oh,” he muttered to himself. “Oh, shit.”</p><p>He scrambled off his feet and to the nearest window, which he shoved open with enough force to send a web of cracks through several of the glass panes. He needed air. Or rather, he needed something, but didn’t know what, so dramatically thrusting open a window and gasping in breaths of frigid winter air seemed like the most helpful course of action.</p><p>It wasn’t.</p><p>Delicate flakes of snow gently danced through the sky, piling up into soft, immaculate pillows that covered the usual grime of London. The snow banks sparkled in the cunning rays of sunlight that managed to sneak through the clouds. Crowley found himself thinking how the picturesque scene reminded him of Aziraphale. His bright, twinkling smile. And his short locks of curly blond hair. And the tidy, neat manner he had about him. And good God, that smile. It was just so… So sickly sweet, so perfectly pure, so proud and smug and kind and well-meaning that it made his head spin and his fingers twitch.</p><p>To Crowley’s horror, a dreamy breath escaped his lips. Immediately, he slammed his hand over his mouth and stumbled backward into the safety of his flat. His eyes darted frantically about the room. No one had seen that. Thank God. Thank Satan. Thank Anyone and Everyone.</p><p>“Shit,” he said again, this time with feeling. “Shit! Shit shit shit shit! Ohhh, that bastard… damned angelic son of a--”</p><p>As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he felt a sharp sting of guilt. That was the frustration talking; he wouldn’t--not even for a single fraction of a second--blame Aziraphale for the ball of lead that had materialized in his stomach cavity. No, the angel didn’t deserve his curses. He only had his own weakness to blame.</p><p>That said, he couldn’t help but think that if Aziraphale wasn’t so perfectly imperfect, then he wouldn’t be in this predicament. If only Aziraphale wasn’t so selfless, but also slightly greedy. If only he wasn’t so forgiving but just a little too proud. So ascetic yet an absolute glutton for gourmet pastries.</p><p>A fond smile played over his lips. Crowley could hardly be blamed for having feelings for someone like that.</p><p>When he noticed he was smiling, he growled and kicked over a coat stand for the crime of being in the wrong place at the wrong time, then swore aloud some more.</p><p>Crowley had no idea what would happen to him if anyone found out. In the eons that passed since Lucifer fell and Hell was created, not once was there any account of a demon catching feelings for anyone, let alone an angel. It simply didn’t happen. Demons were not creatures of love or adoration, they were creatures of malice and spite. This shouldn’t be happening to him.</p><p>And yet…</p><p>He backed into the wall, and slowly slid down into a pathetic heap on the floor. </p><p>And yet here he was. Aching with unwavering, unconditional love for his angel.</p><p>Despite the self-loathing and fear clumping in his throat, part of him wanted to laugh. It was rather morbidly hilarious when he thought about it. He was cast out of Heaven for failing as an angel, and now he was failing quite miserably at being a demon. Would that get him tossed back up into the clouds? Or would Gabriel just send him back down again? Maybe he’d spend the rest of eternity being swatted back and forth between Heaven and Hell like a ball in a cosmic game of jeu de paume. With no precedent for this level of sheer inadequacy, he had no way of knowing what punishment he might face.</p><p>Whatever Hell and Heaven might do, he knew one thing for certain: they’d take him away from Aziraphale. That’s all they would need to do. That’d be the cruelest punishment of all.</p><p>Gathering his composure, he picked himself up, closed the window, and willed a carpet bag into existence, already filled with a selection of his belongings. The colonies in Americas were thriving. The New World was ripe for new trouble, and he needed to get out of London. Out of London and—though it pained him to think about—away from Aziraphale.</p><p>It wasn’t a permanent move. No, he wouldn’t be gone for too long. Just long enough to put the angel from his mind.</p><p>Surely, he thought, absence would make the heart grow colder.</p>
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